Chicken | Bouquets & Brickbats

18/04/24

Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh

It’s certainly a memorable entrance as Eva O’Connor struts and pecks her fretful way onto the stage of The Traverse, clad in an ingenious suit (designed by Bryony Rumble) that transforms her into the creature of the title. That said, she is no ordinary chicken. O’Connor plays Don Murphy, a proud Kerry cockerel and a ‘true son of Ireland.’ Hatched on a beach and full of ambition, he begins the long and eventful journey to stardom with dogged determination, working his way from appearing as Jesus in a local nativity play to the dizzy heights of Hollywood. I mean, come on, how many chickens do you know that have actually won a mother-clucking Oscar?

Chicken, co-written by O’Connor with Hildegard Ryan, is certainly like nothing I’ve ever seen before and O’Connor’s performance is a study in utter commitment as she circles the stage, staring intently into the audience, flapping her wings and flinging out chicken-related puns with absolute conviction. Don, it turns out, is also an inveterate name-dropper. He’s worked with all the biggest Irish film stars – Michael Fassbender, Colin O’Farrell, Brendan Gleeson – and he’s had some strange encounters along the way.

But things become more unsettled when he crosses paths with a daring avian performance artist who reminds him that not all chickens are as lucky as he – and that many of them are destined for the dinner plates of humanity.

For all O’Connor’s undoubted skills as a performer, Chicken is ultimately a little too one-note for comfort. Though exquisitely told and punctuated by a couple of spirited, strobe-lit dance sequences (courtesy of Marianne Nightingale), it doesn’t really have anywhere else to go. By the time Don tells us of his return to his roots in Derry – to star in a Martin McDonagh movie, no less – I’m starting to wish the piece would progress in some more fundamental way, other than pointing out the ultimate limitations of Don’s poultry form. But then, quite without warning it reaches its conclusion.

All respect to O’Connor who gives this 100%, but ultimately I am left wanting more. Happily, that doesn’t extend to calling in at Nando’s on the way home.

3 stars

Philip Caveney

13/08/15

Roundabout@Summerhall, Edinburgh

As we queue to go in to Chicken, the guy on the door gives us a strange warning. ‘If you’re allergic to straw or chicken feathers, don’t sit in the front row,’ he says. As it happens, we’re not, but this must count as a first, even for the Fringe.

Set in a near future dystopia on the Eve of ‘the separation’ – when East Anglia declares it’s independence from the rest of great Britain – the play is an examination of folklore, superstition and ‘Nationalism.’ Emily (Rosie Sheehy) works at a Tesco store, but she has a reputation for not speaking much, preferring instead to sing traditional folk songs and visit the places where witches used to be ‘swum.’ Her father, Harry (Benjamin Dilloway) and Mother, Lorraine (Josephine Butler) both work at a nearby chicken farm (hence the straw and feathers strewn liberally around the stage). Into this setting comes a ‘returner’, Layla (Beth Cooke), who having tried her luck in London has come back to her home town and is eager to reconnect with old crush, Harry. But he’s been dehumanised by his years of organising the slaughter of chickens on a massive scale. Chickens (along with bicycles) are now East Anglia’s biggest export. Meanwhile, Emily seems to be planning something very strange indeed…

The play is beautifully acted by all the cast, but we were somewhat distracted by a noisy fan that blew a stream of cool air into the theatre, making much of the dialogue hard to follow. It was happily dispensed with for the final third, which helped enormously; but I have to admit I found it hard to swallow the play’s conclusion or to feel at all terrorised by the prospect of marauding chickens attacking a family home.

This is a decent play with an intriguing premise. Just make sure you sit well away from that pesky wind machine!

3.8 stars

Philip Caveney